Boston Avant-Garde 4: Encore (7 page)

She grabbed his arm, and he saw a tinge of apprehension in her blue eyes. It bothered him deeply. “I know it’s too much to ask, but will you stay with me?”

“Always.” His response tumbled out before he could weigh the ramifications of it. Her eyes widened, lips pursed as she considered the meaning of that one little word. Jericho realized it didn’t matter. For better or worse, he’d meant it.

Dante felt like a stalker. He’d been digging through his employee database for the last hour, trying to find out as much as he could about Suri O’Callaghan. Unfortunately, there was next to no personal information in his files. She didn’t take cash draws against her paychecks. She reported her tips, probably more accurately than anyone else. And she’d never been in trouble. He had her home address and a phone number for a sister who shared the apartment.

He sat back in his chair and braced his foot against the desk. The chair swung slowly back and forth while he tried to think clearly. He’d been more than a little buzzed when he’d found Suri in his personal quarters. He’d been here, in his office, working his way through a bottle of Arak one glass at a time. The bottle of aniseed liquor still sat on the corner of his desk where he’d abandoned it in favor of finding out why there was a champagne-drinking intruder in his private quarters.

Dante quit spinning his chair long enough to reach for the bottle. The scrolling Arabic on the label was as familiar to him as the English on his desktop correspondence. He rubbed his hands against his face, wondering how he could have ever thought it possible to reinvent himself.

Had everything that happened between him, Jericho, and Suri been real, or was it as fabricated as his American identity? Even if it was real, was it worth the possibility of knocking over the house of cards he’d spent years carefully building? Being open to having his heart trounced was one thing. Risking full exposure was something else entirely.

Flinging himself to his feet, Dante stalked out of his office. According to his computer, Suri was clocked in. The best solution would be to find her. Seeing her again when they were both sober and reasonably in control of their emotional issues would help him decide what was real and what was not.

* * * *

Suri had never worked a private party before. The West Suite was on Asylum’s Level Four, tucked predictably into the western portion of the building. She’d spent the duration of her employment down on Level One, stripping on the stages, jumping at the opportunity to give private lap dances for extra cash. She liked her regular spot. There was something empowering, beautiful, about dancing on a lighted stage with the world watching.

This was a whole new game. There were stacks of fifty-dollar bills on a table. They seemed to wind up in whatever cleavage the congressman could reach. As uncomfortable as it was, a few of these parties would pay for her mother’s nursing home bills and prescription meds for months.

The suite itself reminded her a little of the posh room where she’d stumbled into her illicit romance with Dante and Jericho. It had that same Persian flavor. Tooled screens, leafy green plants and trees, even a playful water fountain in one corner, but it lacked the opulent hand-painted scenes and coffered ceiling.

And there’s no bed.

She had dreamed about that bed. Mostly about what she’d done with her two men, but also about how good it felt to drift off to sleep ensconced in a cocoon of warm male acceptance. She’d never felt more safe and secure in her life. As if nothing could touch her while they watched over her.

Ridiculous and fanciful? Most definitely.

A giggle drew Suri’s attention from her internal musings and back to the party. The man bankrolling this soiree was in the middle of running for a senate seat. She’d gleaned that much, which was probably the reason she felt so decidedly uncomfortable. The sexual habits of politicians had never done her any favors. Watching him pant and slaver over his mistress for the last half hour had decided Suri against voting for the guy.

He was handsome enough, with dark hair and eyes and a big, bright smile. But she would’ve been hard-pressed to like a guy who was obviously married and even more obviously cheating. She wasn’t stupid. She knew men habitually cheated, especially when they were married to wives who’d been handpicked for their pedigrees, not their personalities. In fact, Suri knew more about politicians and their love lives than she’d ever care to ruminate on. But there was something about Congressman Flaherty that disgusted her in ways she couldn’t put a finger on.

The political hopeful was wearing a blue-and-gold smoking jacket that looked as if it had come straight from Hugh Hefner’s closet. His hairy white legs stuck out beneath the hem. He’d taken a short break from stuffing money into Suri’s top and had returned to fucking his date. He was knee-down on the thick rug, pumping in and out of the barely legal girl with platinum hair, while Suri and her coworkers took turns grinding against each other for his viewing pleasure. Fortunately, her turn to rub her body all over Candy’s was over for the moment.

There were three security guards in the room. Suri wondered if they were Secret Service or private contractors, and if they were as sick and tired of watching the congressman fuck his mistress as she was. The guy had gone through this routine three times already. Screw until he was spent, let the dancers get him revved up and ready to go, and then fuck again. Suri had one word to explain this kind of behavior—Viagra.

Jericho was tucked into an alcove in the far corner of the room. His silent presence watched over her as he’d promised he would. She was utterly aware of his gaze on her at all times. Moving slowly, she edged away from the congressman’s private orgy toward the fountain. She ruffled the layers of sheer material covering her lower half, baring an enticing portion of her leg.

It was difficult to hear beneath the congressman’s grunts and moans, but there was music in the room. Suri closed her eyes and focused. Down on Level One, they danced to hard rock. This was different. It matched the setting—sitar and reed pipes, something that sounded Middle Eastern and beautiful in its own way.

The reality of the party slid into the background. The only thing that remained was the sensation of Jericho’s gaze stroking every inch of her body. She glanced over her shoulder to see that he was watching. Reaching into the fountain, she cupped water in her palms and lifted her hands, letting the liquid stream down her arms and her chest. With her breasts barely covered by her low-cut
choli
, the cool water made her nipples bead into hard little points. Suri kept her hands aloft and let the music carry her away from the party.

She thought of Jericho watching, of Dante somewhere inside the club, and the beautiful music they’d all made together. Her hips swung gently, gyrating as she flexed her tummy and rolled it the way she’d been taught so long ago by one of her mother’s dancer friends. It was easier than she’d thought, recalling the rhythm. The sensual movements came more and more naturally as she felt the power of Jericho’s approval wash her in warm acceptance.

JERICHO COULDN’T HAVE moved had he wanted to. He was transfixed by Suri’s erotic dance. She dipped forward at the waist, her long hair sweeping the floor before she flexed up on her toes, bending backward in a graceful arc. Her hands rotated in fluid circles, accentuating each movement of her hips and belly until his cock was throbbing in time.

“Last night was about more than alcohol and depression, wasn’t it?”

Somehow, Jericho wasn’t surprised to hear Dante’s low voice right behind him. It seemed only right that the two of them should witness Suri’s beautiful dance together.

Dante touched his arm, a supplicating gesture that was as unusual as it was telling. “Are you still angry with me?”

Jericho tensed. Was he angry with Dante? He had been when he had felt as though he’d been manipulated into a sexual encounter with a woman who wasn’t sober enough to know what she was doing. Suri herself had laid that to rest, though Dante could most definitely be accused of manipulation. But that was Dante in a nutshell. Manipulation was in his DNA, though it had never affected Jericho as directly as it had last night. He thought of his confusing feelings about experimenting with another man. Was he even ready to think about that yet?

“Something happened last night that we can never undo.” Dante stepped out of the shadows to stand beside Jericho.

The note of uncertainty in Dante’s tone tugged at Jericho’s tightly leashed emotions. “I’m not angry.”

He didn’t get a chance to expand or demand an explanation, because at that moment, Congressman Flaherty’s eyes focused on Suri’s sinuous dance, and the power-tripping politician decided that she was the only thing capable of scratching his itch.

The man plowed over his mistress, pushing her flat to the floor as he tripped to his feet. Flaherty’s smoking jacket gaped open, and Jericho saw enough of the man’s cock to prove that generic male genitalia held no fascination for him.

Flaherty stood as if starstruck. Still locked in her own world, Suri hadn’t yet noticed her rapt and unwanted audience. He was moving in, a step at a time, his gaze raking her body from breasts to crotch.

Jericho clenched his fists tight to keep from leaping in. At this point, the congressman hadn’t broken any club rules. Beside him, Dante was in the same wait-and-see mode. But this wasn’t a run-of-the-mill employee protection detail. This was different. This was the definition of why becoming attached to coworkers was a bad idea.

Jericho knew the precise moment Suri realized she was being stalked. All movement stopped, and she turned away from the fountain, putting her back against the wall.

“Don’t stop.” Flaherty made a shooing gesture with his hands. “Keep dancing, honey. In fact, do it again and take your top off.”

It was obvious the money held a powerful draw for her. Her expression was perfectly smooth, a mix of enticing and demure. But Jericho could sense the distaste she hid beneath her calm facade.

Dante shifted, crossing his arms over his chest. His stance was as rigid as Jericho had ever seen it. Dante was a man who prided himself on his cool head and unflappable poise. At the moment, he looked ready to jump an influential client and throw him out of the club. That alone told Jericho that the earth had moved for all three of them, whether they were willing to admit it or not.

Suri began moving, her dance a shade more inhibited. Tension strung Jericho’s muscles taut. She pivoted to give Flaherty a view of her back. Reaching up, she unfastened her top.

When she turned again, her pert breasts hung free. Flaherty lifted his hands, obviously itching to cop a feel. Jericho ached to whisk her away somewhere private, to cup the fullness of each breast in his palms and thumb her nipples into hard points before taking them in his mouth. Her body was meant to bridge the gap between him and Dante. The sensation of being together had the potential to eclipse any lingering doubts.

Dante jerked, covering the telltale motion by turning his back. “Business is business, and I need to get back to mine.”

SOME OF SURI’S confidence left with Dante when he disappeared from Jericho’s side. She shouldn’t have cared. Jericho had already made his interest clear, and one guy should’ve been enough. Especially when he looked like Jericho Davies.

So why did it feel as if Dante had just thrown her to the wolves? Why did she feel so stung by his dismissal?

“Touch yourself, honey.” Flaherty wasn’t done dictating this little show. Suri chewed the inside of her cheek and wondered if she was about to make a huge mistake. Holding out one hand, she made the universal gesture for “show me the money.”

Thankfully, Flaherty laughed loudly, the sound like nails on a chalkboard. “Business first, hmm?” He drew a wad of bills from the pocket of his jacket.

Without a top, there was nowhere but her skirt for him to put the money. Trying not to show her distaste, Suri offered him a spot on her hip. Flaherty made a big show of stuffing four fifty-dollar bills into the waistband of her skirt. His fingers splayed against her belly and dipped deliberately close to her pubic hair.

“Are you wet for me, honey?” Flaherty’s nostrils flared, pupils dilating. “You want my fingers in your cunt, don’t you?”

Panic demanded she jam her foot in his crotch and run like hell, but she’d learned early that wasn’t very good for business. She decided to play the coquette instead, backing out of his reach and dancing as he’d originally asked.

Distraction usually worked for overeager customers, but she was used to the stages where violating club rules meant you got thrown out. Flaherty didn’t play by the rules. He made them up as he went along.

“Not so fast, honey.” He grabbed her by the hips. “I want what I paid for.”

“I’m a dancer. Not a whore.”

In two seconds flat, she was pressed up against the lip of the fountain with Flaherty’s fingers trying to probe her slit from behind. She struggled, a balloon of terror swelling inside her chest as she tried to scream. It was like pushing against a brick wall. His sour scent overwhelmed her senses, his clammy hands groping her ass and trying to pry her legs apart.

“What the fuck?” Flaherty leaped away so quickly that Suri tumbled to the floor.

Rolling to her knees and snatching up the tiny velvet drawstring bag that held her night’s take, she glimpsed Jericho in the middle of the room with all three of Flaherty’s bodyguards. One beefy guy was already prone on the floor. Jericho had the second guy’s neck locked beneath his arm as he circled slowly, eye to eye with the third as if waiting for him to make one wrong move.

“Stand down, Jericho!” Flaherty’s indignant tone hinted that he knew he’d lost control of the situation.

The demand had no effect on Jericho. When the last guard lunged, Jericho used the one he held captive like a battering ram. The two guards smashed together with a sickening crunch. Groaning, they flopped to the floor to join their comrade.

“Are you all right?” Jericho held out his hand, and Suri took it, allowing him to pull her upright. He jerked his head at the other three Asylum dancers. “Let’s go. Now.”